Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Jun 18, 2017 23:15:27 GMT -5
What now?
Whitey Ford couldn't really feel much at all. He knew he was leaning against a wall because of the pressure on his left shoulder. He knew he was concussed, because of his blurred vision and slurred words that came without the aid of copious amounts of alcohol. He knew that his face was busted open badly because whever that fucking breeze was coming from, his face felt cold and wet and he felt sick just thinking about it. But he also knew...
...the PCW World Championship belt rested firmly on his right shoulder.
After his match, Whitey had staggered to the back amongst a smattering of appluase from the PCW faithful. But once he was backstage, nobody greeted the newly crowned champion with congratulations or words of encouragment. Also, nobody was there to jeer at him or make him feel like his victory was unearned. No Michael John Windsor, no Bob King, no Jamie Siraco. Whitey Ford stood alone in the hallway, smilng a smug smile and taking deep breaths.
What now?
Ford swept a shaky hand over his forehead and whiped off a veritable amount of blood. His entire body ached and he felt as if he could pass out at any moment, but there he stood; basking in the glow of his victory alone, a solitary reveler in a well deserved championship parade.
"I'll be the best fighting champion ever;" he found himself saying out loud as he slumped to the floor, gripping the title belt closer. "But only those who deserve a shot will get one. I am in control. I am...I am going to prove that...
...prove that..."
...prove that...
Prove what? What more was there left to prove? Whitey had suffered a couple setbacks since his return, but all in all he had taken PCW by storm. What more did he have to prove? Sorry Tom Brady, there's another G.OA.T. and you're not it. Yes, a day will come when Whitey loses his title. Yes, he will likely be beaten an inch from his life in his title defense. And yes, there will be blood. But at this time, in this moment...Whitey Ford was the best in Pure Class Wrestling, without a doubt.
He stumbled then, somehow landing in a chair. The thought of steel chairs made him laugh. He might not have fought completely clean, but it was one hell of a fight and he did what he had to do. Ever since his return Whitey had made sure to not cheat or use underhanded tactics...but he had made sure to win as well.
What now??!
What indeed. With the lack of coherent though due to multiple contusions to the head, Ford could only mumble a few words to himself, vaguely aware that paramedics were shining lights in his eyes to see the exact amount of damage done.
"The world. The world is next."
Whitey Ford couldn't really feel much at all. He knew he was leaning against a wall because of the pressure on his left shoulder. He knew he was concussed, because of his blurred vision and slurred words that came without the aid of copious amounts of alcohol. He knew that his face was busted open badly because whever that fucking breeze was coming from, his face felt cold and wet and he felt sick just thinking about it. But he also knew...
...the PCW World Championship belt rested firmly on his right shoulder.
After his match, Whitey had staggered to the back amongst a smattering of appluase from the PCW faithful. But once he was backstage, nobody greeted the newly crowned champion with congratulations or words of encouragment. Also, nobody was there to jeer at him or make him feel like his victory was unearned. No Michael John Windsor, no Bob King, no Jamie Siraco. Whitey Ford stood alone in the hallway, smilng a smug smile and taking deep breaths.
What now?
Ford swept a shaky hand over his forehead and whiped off a veritable amount of blood. His entire body ached and he felt as if he could pass out at any moment, but there he stood; basking in the glow of his victory alone, a solitary reveler in a well deserved championship parade.
"I'll be the best fighting champion ever;" he found himself saying out loud as he slumped to the floor, gripping the title belt closer. "But only those who deserve a shot will get one. I am in control. I am...I am going to prove that...
...prove that..."
...prove that...
Prove what? What more was there left to prove? Whitey had suffered a couple setbacks since his return, but all in all he had taken PCW by storm. What more did he have to prove? Sorry Tom Brady, there's another G.OA.T. and you're not it. Yes, a day will come when Whitey loses his title. Yes, he will likely be beaten an inch from his life in his title defense. And yes, there will be blood. But at this time, in this moment...Whitey Ford was the best in Pure Class Wrestling, without a doubt.
He stumbled then, somehow landing in a chair. The thought of steel chairs made him laugh. He might not have fought completely clean, but it was one hell of a fight and he did what he had to do. Ever since his return Whitey had made sure to not cheat or use underhanded tactics...but he had made sure to win as well.
What now??!
What indeed. With the lack of coherent though due to multiple contusions to the head, Ford could only mumble a few words to himself, vaguely aware that paramedics were shining lights in his eyes to see the exact amount of damage done.
"The world. The world is next."